Gurl PowR!
Maybe it's all the talk about vibrators, maybe it's the soft caress of those fluffy new hand towels. Maybe it's your period. Whatever it is, you suddenly couldn't care less about going to work. A slow, dull ache from down below makes you feel sluggish and languid, like you want to collapse onto a big terrycloth trampoline lined with rose petals.
"You know," you say to Gina, "I'm thinking I'll play hooky today."
"Again?" she exclaims. "You took off last week too for that big one-day-only sale!"
"Well, obviously, it was only for one day! But you should agree with me this time. Since Garrett's not going to be interested in anything, I have to get my kicks in now."
"I see," she says sagely. "You need some one-on-one with the Bolshevik. I won't hold you up any more then. Kissy kissy and tell me if anything interesting does happen with Garrett. Bye, baby!"
"Bye, chica. Try not to burn out those batteries!"
Forgetting entirely about brushing your teeth and leaving the big glob of toothpaste there for your roommate to clean up, you run back into your room. Carefully locking the door, you absentmindedly dial work and invent a lame excuse about a stomach virus, very contagious. While pulling off your jeans (which are annoyingly tight today), you reach over to your stereo and turn on the one CD that has been spinning round and round in it for the last half a year: Johnny Treebrook, of course! Garrett plays in a band, but he's certainly no Johnny. God, don't you deserve better?
You pull down your shades, light a candle or two, and crank up the music. By now you have taken off both your jeans and your purple VS panties, leaving them in a little heap on the floor. You open the secret drawer of your nightstand. Pushing aside some edible underwear and an old pair of fishnets, you find what you're looking for: a long gray box with the inscription Comrade Petrov's Re-educator. You smile to yourself, remembering all the nights that the Comrade has kept you company. He's by far the most reliable man in your life.
Pulling him out of his box, you gaze lovingly at him. He is about seven inches long and made of a gunmetal gray rubber. On his tip are a few little spikes meant to inflict the sweetest sort of torture. You lie back in bed with your knees up, aiming the Comrade's head right at that special little bulb between your legs. You turn on Comrade Petrov.
You turn it on a little higher.
A little higher.
It's now on at maximum intensity and NOTHING is happening!
"Dammit!" you shriek, punching your pillow in frustration. The batteries are dead and you know you don't have any extras. God, could this day GET any worse? What can you possibly do now?
"You know," you say to Gina, "I'm thinking I'll play hooky today."
"Again?" she exclaims. "You took off last week too for that big one-day-only sale!"
"Well, obviously, it was only for one day! But you should agree with me this time. Since Garrett's not going to be interested in anything, I have to get my kicks in now."
"I see," she says sagely. "You need some one-on-one with the Bolshevik. I won't hold you up any more then. Kissy kissy and tell me if anything interesting does happen with Garrett. Bye, baby!"
"Bye, chica. Try not to burn out those batteries!"
Forgetting entirely about brushing your teeth and leaving the big glob of toothpaste there for your roommate to clean up, you run back into your room. Carefully locking the door, you absentmindedly dial work and invent a lame excuse about a stomach virus, very contagious. While pulling off your jeans (which are annoyingly tight today), you reach over to your stereo and turn on the one CD that has been spinning round and round in it for the last half a year: Johnny Treebrook, of course! Garrett plays in a band, but he's certainly no Johnny. God, don't you deserve better?
You pull down your shades, light a candle or two, and crank up the music. By now you have taken off both your jeans and your purple VS panties, leaving them in a little heap on the floor. You open the secret drawer of your nightstand. Pushing aside some edible underwear and an old pair of fishnets, you find what you're looking for: a long gray box with the inscription Comrade Petrov's Re-educator. You smile to yourself, remembering all the nights that the Comrade has kept you company. He's by far the most reliable man in your life.
Pulling him out of his box, you gaze lovingly at him. He is about seven inches long and made of a gunmetal gray rubber. On his tip are a few little spikes meant to inflict the sweetest sort of torture. You lie back in bed with your knees up, aiming the Comrade's head right at that special little bulb between your legs. You turn on Comrade Petrov.
You turn it on a little higher.
A little higher.
It's now on at maximum intensity and NOTHING is happening!
"Dammit!" you shriek, punching your pillow in frustration. The batteries are dead and you know you don't have any extras. God, could this day GET any worse? What can you possibly do now?